we are never done with thinking about our parents, I suppose, and come to know them better long after they are dead than we ever did when they were alive.

It is clear that we do not exactly choose our poems; our poems choose us.

Gardening is the instrument of grace.

We are able to laugh when we achieve detachment, if only for a moment.

True gardeners cannot bear a glove Between the sure touch and the tender root.

I am not a greedy person except about flowers and plants, and then I become fanatically greedy.

I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become... but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress.